King of Fortitude;

Love, love, love, love, love,

I’m spilling over and I want you

To catch

What

I’m

Losing

Here.

Every instance an incisor,

indented and impacted.

Bite down into me, draw blood,

I can’t keep walking these rooms the same

way forever.  I feel the banality of going

further alone, like conducting the train that

doesn’t have a destination, just wheels about,

orbiting the city; the recurrence of self with no

den in another to covertly operate against the

big leagues of the world.  The home plate

doesn’t see me rounding third, getting tagged

out.  Was told to feel safe with no other batters,

besides that which puts the battering ram to

the skull.  King of fortitude, am I in the highest

seat or the high chair?  I won’t know the

difference until the last bit of illustration shows

lover boy & all of his tendencies on the

funeral pyre—stoked from end to end.

Or until I find love’s open mouth.